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by The Wicked Symphony (SymphonyWizard)



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 15:25:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16579148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SymphonyWizard/pseuds/The%20Wicked%20Symphony
Summary: After years of captivity, Lieutenant James Rogers is finally coming home.





	Home

The plane touches down and I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding.  All the training and mental conditioning that came with being a full lieutenant in the United State Navy S.E.A.L.s couldn’t fix my fear of flying.  In fact, given who my family are, I’m convinced I was trained twice as hard as anybody in Basic or BUD/S.  I have fond memories of sitting in my mother’s lap as she flew quinjets, but every time the aircraft took a deep ascend or descend, I’d cover my eyes or hold onto her for dear life.  Every time, she would sing to me in Russian.

During the war, every time I was in a plane or helicopter, I would sing those songs to myself.  My buddies never understood why I did that.  I do know that at least some of them enjoyed the songs I sang.  Actually, the fact that I am fluent in English, Russian, French, and even spoken Latin have proved to be a valuable asset in my military career so far.   

I breathe hard.  Thinking about my friends brings tears to my eyes.  Navy S.E.A.L.s are trained to be the best of the best in American terms (some of my friends did get their asses handed to them in boxing matches with our friends in the British S.A.S.) but no one is invincible.  The destroyer my team was stationed on caught a surprise attack from a terrorist cell that hijacked a container ship. 

They somehow had gotten wind that the container ship was secretly shipping weapons to one of our allies.  They wanted to get their hands on them first.  They hijacked those weapons and when our destroyer intercepted the ship for a routine inspection—which really should be left to the Coast Guard, but this was outside their jurisdiction—but our captain was suspicious. 

If only he knew the half of it. 

The official story is that we were ambushed by pirates seeking to steal biochemical weapons and sell them off the black market to the highest bidder.     

The _true_ story is that these pirates were hired by Hydra.  My parents and their allies have spent years basically playing a game of whack-a-mole with Hydra.  Knock down one head, two more pop back right up.  Apparently there was a mole on the destroyer’s crew who messaged Hydra that First Lieutenant Jimmy Rushman was on board.

Most of the enlisted as well as some of the officers didn’t even know that my team and I were in fact with the Navy.  My team was a highly secretive detachment of S.E.A.L. Team Six.  On the destroyer, we usually wore civilian clothing I think only one of use chose the traditional military haircut out of personal preference.  One of my teammates had shoulder-length hair, another had a goatee, and I kept a somewhat thick haircut that I always finger-combed sideways. 

For some secrecy was a learned skill.  For me, it was something I learned from my daycare days reciting the English and Russian alphabets. 

My parents and their friends have gone to enormous lengths to keep my very existence as secret as possible. The day my mother found out she was pregnant with me a rock-hard alibi was put in store as a cover-up for her maternity leave.  A violent shoot-out was staged wherein she was shot in several places (though amazingly not her womb) to look like she had spent several weeks in surgery and another two in in a coma followed by an eighteen-month recovery. 

She eventually resumed her role as Black Widow, but now she was a mother on top of being a superhero. For all her obligations to the world and the Avengers, her and my father’s top priority was and probably will always be me. 

Naturally, I’ve led a very sheltered life.  I was not allowed to leave my hometown in Ohio of all places and vacations were few and far between.  My family also has a small cabin in Wakanda.  I miss going to Wakanda.  I have fond memories of exploring the untamed wilderness and playing around in Shuri’s lab.  It’s a secret that only the two of us know, but we schemed and occasionally we pulled pranks on her brother, King T’Challa.

So when I started expressing interest in enlistment, my family, especially my father, tried very hard to keep me out of recruitment stations.  Sometimes I still think my dad’s resentment came partially from my interest in the Navy instead of the Army.

“You’ll be spending most of your career wandering around five to eleven hundred feet of steel surrounded by miles and miles of ocean when you could be seeing so much more in the Army,” he said once.  I have friends in just about every branch.  I even have some Coast Guard buddies.  Maybe it’s just my father’s good nature that I’ve seem to have inherited, but I never actually indulged in trash talk between branches of the military. 

One thing that I inherited from my mother, besides my hair and eye color, is my ability to lie.  When I finally managed to convince them to let me enlist, we had to give me a new identity.  My name is James Clinton Stefanovich Romanova Rogers.  A very long name, but it’s one that emphasizes both sides of my heritage.  It’s also a very dangerous name.  There are very few who know it. 

For my enlistment, I became James Clinton Steven Rushman, a tomato farmer from southern Ohio.  My parents are Grant Rushman, a native of Brooklyn, and Nikka Rushman, a second generation American whose parents were from Volgograd.  Even for a master of lies like my mother, the best lies have the most truth in them.

Ruefully, as I walk out of the plane, I realize that my friends who I’ve fought with and failed to protect never knew the real James Rogers.  I spent three years in Hydra captivity.  They reminded me of my web of lies constantly as they tried to indoctrinate me into their cause.  They even had help from people who were formerly part of something called the “Red Room” whatever that is. 

I was tortured in every possible way.  I left a trail of blood when I finally managed to escape.  I did unspeakable things in my effort to escape.  I did things that if I were to share them with my family they might no longer see me as the boy they raised, but a monster.     

When I managed to get to the nearest U.S. base, I went to great lengths to keep my return from being an M.I.A. out of the press.  I still wanted my return to my family to be a surprise.  Even the interrogations and debriefs from military intelligence, the C.I.A., and even Homeland Security were torture all on their own.

As I enter the airport, I stick out like a sore thumb in my white Navy uniform and cap.  People’s eyes flick to the decorations on my chest from my stripes as an Officer in the Navy, to my medals and their expression range from awe, to adoration, to admiration, and general respect.  Among my medals is the Navy Cross.  I earned it protecting my friends until help arrived even though we were outnumbered ten to one.  Being a part of S.E.A.L. Team Six, I often don’t even bother with uniforms of any kind.  I'm wearing this white uniform now simply because some people thought it would look good to see a Navy officer returning home.  So I guess I still couldn't escape the demands of public relations.  An anonymous Navy officer was saved from captivity and all the press can do is hurt themselves trying to get a scoop on the name of the officer.   

I will still remain anonymous if I can help it.  

When I barely escaped that Hydra base with my life intact and stumbled into the nearest U.S. Navy base, it was hard enough to prove my identity.  My dog tags were gone.  They were sent home along with a very small box of my personal belongings. 

I cannot fathom what that did to my family.  My parents are fearsome and at times ruthless.  What did losing their son do to that quality?  Did they become harder and colder?  Did my mother become more nightmarish for those unlucky enough to face her?  Did my father begin to smile even less? 

It was a big event.  Quite literally, I’ve been brought back from the dead.  The decision for no press coverage regarding the Navy S.E.A.L. who came back from the dead was an argument I won, but a week from today, I will have to make a public appearance in front of a number of Navy officials.  Even the President will be there.  That particular bit worries me, because given some of my family’s history we don’t have a very good relationship with the government.

It took eight years for the Sokovia Accords to be abolished.  There was also some big war that the Avengers fought.  One that everyone I know refuses to talk very much about.  All they ever told me was that it was awful and cost them a lot. 

My bedtime stories, when my parents weren’t reading me chapters from Russian copies of _Harry Potter_ , were stories of my parents fighting Ultron, the Chitauri, and the on-off confrontations with Loki.  The ones about Loki entertained me the most.  My Uncle Thor always had stories to tell about his late brother.  Based on everything he told me, Loki wasn’t evil.  He just didn’t always like to play nice. 

I even dressed as Loki for Halloween once.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts as a little boy salutes me before his mother can stop him. 

Smiling softly, I salute him right back.  I envy his naïveté.  War is ugly.  First person shooters are big sellers in the gaming industry and I can bet some people even enlist _because_ of how much they enjoyed them.  It disgusts me now how much war is dramatized and turned into a form of entertainment. 

There are some war movies I still enjoy.  I’ll never say anything bad about movies like _Saving Private Ryan_ , the HBO series _Band of Brothers_ , the German movie _Downfall_ , or even _Letters from Iwo Jima_ as well as some from my generation, but I’m just not sure I can stomach them anymore.  I used to enjoy paintball events, but I don’t think I can even enjoy those anymore. 

“Lieutenant James Romanoff?”

I halt immediately.  I can count on one hand how many people know—or at least are supposed to know—that name.  When I enlisted, it wasn’t long before my true identity was discovered.  Rather than throw me out, it was golden ticket that landed me in S.E.A.L. training.  I chose my mother’s name in an effort to distinguish myself from father.  I wanted serve without being constantly compared to Captain America. 

At least I wasn’t given tights.  Although, I would have liked a shield, but given my job description, something like that would be too conspicuous.  Anyway, anyone who knows my father knows that he is pretty lethal even without his signature shield.  My eyes land on a tall figure.  I see his ribbons and clear my throat.

“Sir,” I drop my bags and salute the man. 

Chief of Naval Operations Tom Chandler chuckles softly as he salutes back.  “At ease, sailor.”

I relax, but I’m still confused.  “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

C.N.O. Chandler nods once.  “Granted.”

“Why are you here?” I ask.

The C.N.O. regards me thoughtfully.  “A reasonable question; I wanted to personally welcome you back to the States.”

My face turns serious.  “Do I have any more debriefs that I need to go to, sir?”

C.N.O. Chandler sighs.  “I’m afraid so, son.”

 _Please don’t call me that_.  I never appreciated people other than my parents using that term with me.

“But right now, I thought I’d give you a lift home.”

I gape at the man.  “Sir, that’s really not necessary.  Surely you have other places to be.”

“I insist, Lieutenant.”

I scrutinize the man.  I search him with my eyes the same way my mother always did.  I feel like I’ve inherited her distrust of authority figures.  Given my own rank, that’s a bit ironic.  I would love to know what more the government wants with me, but I’m afraid that it’s way above my pay grade. 

Eventually, I smile.  “Thank you, sir.”

Several minutes later, I’m leaving the airport with the Chief.  I’m in upstate New York.  I’m not even sure if my parents will be here or if they will be in our home in Ohio.  Do they even still live in Ohio?  Since the very existence of my family is a closely guarded secret, there was no one available who was able to tell me whether my family was still in Ohio or not.  I chose to head to New York, because I knew that at least my Uncle Tony would be there. 

I wonder how he’s doing.  Mostly a result of the Infinity War, he has struggled on and off with alcoholism.  He was always really good to me, even if his egotism was at times stifling even when I was a kid.  A few times his alcoholism landed him in rehab.  Eventually, his bouts of drunkenness were more frequent than his sober days.

There were points in time that he was kept from me because of his drinking problems. 

After about an hour of driving, eventually we reach the outskirts of the Avengers complex.  I never really liked the place.  My family has a suite there, but my home will always be in Ohio.  Being in the Navy, I have looked into getting a more coastal home. 

Technically, I’m still a commissioned officer in the Navy.  I’ll always answer the call of duty, but given everything I’ve dealt with, I would welcome a discharge. 

“Stop here,” I instruct.  The Chief stops several feet away from the front gate. 

“You’ll be okay from here?” he asks.  The unspoken depth of that question hangs in the air, feeling my like the ocean where I sometimes feel I should have died.

“I really don’t know, sir,” I answer honestly. 

The man claps me on the shoulder.  “It would be wrong for me to say I understand what you’re going through, but I’ve had a few friends who suffered captivity.  You’re home now; it’s a start.”

“Thank you, sir,” I thank as I get out of the car.  I watch the man’s car until it disappears.  Then I turn towards the complex.  I take a deep breath and walk towards it.  I reach the gate and go to the callbox and press the button.

“Name, please,” says Friday’s voice. 

I recite my full name.  “It’s me, Friday.”

“Welcome home, James,” says Friday. 

“And please don’t tell anyone that it’s me,” I beg.”

“I won’t,” replies Friday.

The gates open and I head up the long drive to the complex.  I eventually reach the residential part of the complex and step inside.  The lobby is mostly unchanged from what I remember.  The Avengers seal still decorates the marble floor and the place still has more of an office building vibe to it.  It does offer residential accommodations for its inhabitants, none of which seem to have made their way into the lobby.

I head up the first flight of stairs I see and end up in the living room.  The room has a little bit of everyone in it.  Everyone had an armchair that no one else sat in.  In front of the large semicircle is what I am sure is still the biggest television set in the complex.  Of all the perks this place offers, it doesn’t actually have its own theater room.  Still, you can’t argue with an eighty-inch TV set. 

I check the kitchen.  A massive kitchen, yes, and given the mess and the smells, it looks like it’s been used recently.

I head off to the dining room.  That’s when I start to hear everyone.  Through the open doorway, I see Tony—who looks very sober—Pepper, Thor, his wife and his daughter, Jane and Tory, and even Clint and his family.  Finally, my breath catches in my throat as I see my family.

My mother looks as beautiful as I remember.  Her wavy red locks are tied up in a messy bun and she’s wearing a black flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.  My dad has his hair cut short again and is neatly combed as it always is.  He also has a beard with specks of gray in it.  The both of them have extended lifespans due to their serums.  They are both well over a hundred years old (although my dad was frozen for seventy years) and yet they look like they are barely out of their early thirties. 

My eyes reach the head of the table and I stop dead in my tracks, surprised that no one has noticed me yet.  Blonde and blue eyed like our father, my little sister Sarah Rogers looks just like our mother.  I see the cake in front of her. 

Today is my sister’s birthday!  She must be seventeen by now!

The candles are lit and everyone begins to sing happy birthday.  Before I can stop myself, I join in.  That’s when everyone notices that there is someone else with them.  Even as I feel the steadily increasing weight of everyone’s eyes on me I sing happy birthday to my little sister. 

My eyes are locked with my sister’s.  When the song ends, she along with everyone else is still staring at me.  Surely, I must be a ghost to them.

Leaving the cake with the candles still burning, I watch as my sister gets up from her chair and slowly closes the distance between us.  I remove my cap as she nears. 

“Jimmy?” she asks, reaching up to touch my face. 

I grasp my sister’s hand, releasing the tears I didn’t realize I was holding back.  “Hey, twerp.  Sorry, I don’t have a present for you.”

Sarah absolutely breaks down in tears as she throws her arms around me.  “I can’t believe you’re alive!” she sobs into my shoulder. 

I’m too overwhelmed to say anything else as I wrap my arms around my sister.  I’m quite certain that she will disappear if I dare to let go. 

“James?”

I look up and my parents have walked up to me.  Sarah breaks away just enough for the two of us to stare at our parents. 

“ _Hey, Mama_ ,” I greet my mother in Russian. 

Like Sarah, my mother reaches out to touch me tentatively, as if unsure whether I’m real or not. 

“My baby boy,” she sobs as she envelops me in her arms.  The Black Widow rarely breaks down in front of anyone, but as my eyes scan everyone in the room, everyone has risen from their seats and are surrounding my family.  No one makes a sound, yet each of them is choking up.  My Uncle Clint, one of my namesakes, is hugging his wife Laura from behind as they watch us.  I lock eyes with him and all he can do is smile.  And for once in my memory, Uncle Tony is utterly speechless. 

Finally, I lock eyes with my father.  I clear my throat as we stare at each other. 

“Dad,” I address.  “Listen, I remember we said some pretty harsh words to each other last time we saw each other and I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry,” I choke out, but my tears overpower me.  On either side of me, my mother and sister grasp me affectionately. 

Soon, though, I feel large powerful arms wrap around me.  “You’re home, son, and that’s all that matters,” I hear my father whisper.  “I can’t believe you’re home.”

“I said I’d come home,” I tease, in spite of myself.  That’s not all I said.  However, it’s all that matters.  “Now is anyone going to blow out those candles?”   

**Author's Note:**

> For those who do not know, a Navy/Coast Guard Lieutenant is the equivalent of an Army Captain. 
> 
> I haven't decided if this is a part of the story of my previous Romanogers fic at all. This will probably just be a standalone. 
> 
> And as always, let me know in the comments what you think!
> 
> And let me know if people would like to know more about James’s captivity and/or how it has affected him.


End file.
